


Drabbles from wakeuptothemoon

by wakeuptothemoon



Series: Drabbles from wakeuptothemoon [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Supernatural
Genre: 221B Ficlet, Drabble, Drabble Collection, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gen, M/M, Multi, Multiple Fandoms, Other, Post Episode: s08e23 Sacrifice, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-12
Updated: 2013-06-11
Packaged: 2017-12-08 05:55:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 5,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/757849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wakeuptothemoon/pseuds/wakeuptothemoon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of drabbles from various fandoms.  They can also be found on my tumblr: wakeuptothemoon.tumblr.com</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Drabble #1: T'hy'la

**Author's Note:**

> None of these characters or shows belong to me. At all.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He can't figure out what to call it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ficlet title from this link, about this amazing Vulcan word and all its meanings: http://memory-beta.wikia.com/wiki/T%27hy%27la
> 
> Sherlock, John, and all that they are does not belong to me. Neither does anything related to Star Trek.

He can’t figure out what to call it.

It’s been years since he pulled out any of his old Star Trek novels; Harry’s had them in storage, and they are dusty, cracked-spined, and they smell wonderful.

Sherlock is actually asleep, his usual eighteen hours post-case.  So John sits down with his copy of Roddenberry’s novelization of _Star Trek: The Motion Picture_ and begins.

Trek, he recalls, was the only thing he and his father had had in common.  But in reading, it is not that relationship (if you could call it that) John thinks of—it’s his own, this _thing_ between him and Sherlock that hangs in the room like smoke.

Friend is too little; beloved too much.  Brother not enough and removing the erotic.  Partner seems to imply that they only solve crimes, leaving out how they’ve solved the riddles of each other.

John keeps reading.  Sherlock sighs in his sleep.

Then he reads it.  _T’hy’la_.

And pulls out his mobile to confirm the word’s meaning.

There.  That.  Perfect.

Vulcan for friend/brother/lover.  All of it at once.  Kirk and Spock, working in tandem and toward mutual success, for each other.

John lets the book fall into his lap and looks at Sherlock asleep.

 _T’hy’la._   He says it out loud, tastes it.

Sherlock stirs.  “John?”

“I’m here.”


	2. Drabble #2: Pi Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John came home from work to an unusual smell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ficlet written in honor of Pi Day (3/14)!
> 
> Sherlock and John don't belong to me. Too bad.

John came home from work to an unusual smell.

“Sherlock, what are you doing?”  The flat never smelled like cinnamon unless Mrs. Hudson had brought up something delicious. “If you’re doing experiments on the scones Mrs. Hudson brought up, I will—”  
  
John stopped in front of the kitchen and saw Sherlock pull something out of the oven, both of his hands covered in (Mrs. Hudson’s) oven mitts, one with kittens, one with cherries.

“Oh, John.  Good, you’re home.”

“What are you doing?”

“Baking,” Sherlock answered, as though it was an everyday occurrence.

“You. Don’t. Bake.” John said, eyes narrowing and looking at the… pie? with suspicion.

“Not usually, no.  But I thought it appropriate today.”

“Why?”

“What’s today, John?”  Sherlock asked.

“March 14.”

“And what does that look like?”

“What does what look like?”

“The date, John, the date!”  Sherlock was looking more frustrated by the second.  He gave John exactly 5.3 seconds to answer and then said, “Pi!  John, it’s Pi day!  Three point one four!”

John smiled.  “Oh,” he said.

“You have the cut the pie since you couldn’t figure it out.  Child’s play, John, really.”

“Fine by me.”


	3. Drabble #3: Wings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean walks into his room and finds Cas in his bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ficlet inspired by many lovely fanarts which depict Cas covering Dean with his wings.
> 
> I don't own anything to do with Supernatural either.

Dean walks into his room and finds Cas in his bed.

It’s a shock, of course, but Dean takes the angel in, curled fully dressed in a ball on far the side of the bed.  He’s tucked his legs up like a child, full fetal position.

Dean moves slowly toward his leather coat and pulls a pair of glasses from an inside pocket.  He’s not sure if he should, if seeing might be against some sort of angel code.  But he puts the holy oiled frames on his face and has to hold back a gasp.

Cas is covered on both sides by his wings.  They’re long and dense, blue-black like his hair, and in the weird tint of the glasses, they gleam with tracers of silver.  One of them is tucked under the arm cradling Cas’s head, an extra pillow, and the other covers him from head to toe, a shining, dark blanket.

Dean doesn’t wonder why Cas is sleeping, why he’s here.  It’s not worth it, right now.  Dean takes the glasses off after taking in the covering wing one more time.

The hunter kneels in front of Cas’s face.  His eyes are tightly closed, and, despite his sleep, his face is tense and drawn.

“Cas?”

He is instantly awake.  “Dean.”  His eyes dart around, streaks of sapphire.  Dean, I’m sorry.  I’ll go.”

Dean’s hand is on his shoulder before he can move. “Don’t. Stay.  Since when do you sleep?”

“I don’t know.  I…”

“Don’t worry about it, Cas.”

“What are those?”  The blue eyes look at the glasses and widen.  “Dean.  Did you..?”

“Yes.”  Dean feels guilty.  “Damn, Cas, is that some taboo?  Shit.”

“No.” The angel stays where he is, shakes his head.  “No.  Why?  Were you simply curious?”

“I guess.”  Dean steps out of his shoes.  “Shove over, Cas.”

The angel’s confusion is evident.  “Where?”

“Scoot toward the other side of the bed, Cas.”

He does.

Dean lays down next to him, back to the angel, and moves slowly toward him until he can grab Cas’s arm and draw it over his chest.  The hunter entwines their fingers.

“Cas, I’m tired, you’re tired.  Go back to sleep.”

“Dean…”  Cas has shifted toward him; Dean’s name is a whisper of air against his neck.

Dean tightens his grip.  “Sleep, Cas.  We can talk about it in the morning. Or when Sam wakes us up stomping around.”

He feels Cas nod.  As Dean starts to relax, he can feel something settle on him, covering him, cashmere-warm but weightless.

“Cas, are you..?”

“Yes.  Is that okay?”

“Is it?”

“As long as you don’t mind, Dean.”

“Then it is.”  It’s a little overwhelming to be _held_ that way, but Dean is warm and feels unmentionably safe beneath the invisible feathers.

There is a comfortable silence as the two breath in tandem.  Then Dean asks, “Cas, why are they black?”

“They were not always black, Dean.  Do you know what a peregrine falcon looks like?”  Dean nods.  “They looked more like that once.”  Cas moves a little closer to Dean, nose touching Dean’s neck.  “But they were.. burnt when I took you from Hell.”

Dean stiffens under Cas’s arm.  “Really?  Because of me?”

“I have no regrets, Dean.  It was worth the injury and the singeing.  Go to sleep.”

Dean relaxes into the mattress and feels Cas do the same.  He falls asleep to the angel’s even breathing, the invisible down of the wing cocooning him.


	4. Drabble #4: Homecoming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lestrade woke up to the sound of his front door opening and closing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BBC Sherlock, its characters, and the ever-wonderful Greg Lestrade are not mine.
> 
> I was inspired by the photo at the top of this post: http://wakeuptothemoon.tumblr.com/post/48666638702/drabble-4-homecoming-lestrade-woke-up-to-the#permalink-notes

Lestrade woke up to the sound of his front door opening and closing.

His first thought was that it was John; the poor bastard had never used the key Greg had offered him all those months ago, but anything could happen. 

But when there was no soft call of his name, he knew it wasn’t John.

He took a couple of deep breaths and pulled his gun out from underneath the pillow next to him. He rolled carefully out of bed, cringing a little at the chill on his legs, and silently padded into the hall.

In the low gleam of the kitchen light, a lean silhouette was outlined in front of the open refrigerator. It was moving, pulling food and the jug of milk out and setting them on the countertop.

What the fuck? Who breaks into a place and eats?

Unfortunately, Greg could only think of one person. And that person was supposed to be dead, and buried, and had caused him and John and everyone a whole hell of a lot of grief. He was briefly overcome with a memory of a very high Sherlock breaking into his old flat and eating everything he could find despite the effects of the cocaine.

Despite everything he knew to the contrary, Greg took a leap of faith. He did believe, after all. He put his gun down on the floor by the kitchen entrance, the soft click of metal on wood causing the figure to turn.

Greg crossed his arms across his rumpled dress shirt and put on his most ferocious glare.

“Sherlock, for fuck’s sake, you could have just called.”


	5. Drabble #5: Lover, You Should Have Come Over

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It had been two weeks since Dean woke up in an empty bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't own Supernatural.
> 
> Proof of Jensen's voice?: http://youtu.be/gyjfDUwH3vc
> 
> "Lover, You Should Have Come Over" covered by Jamie Cullum: http://youtu.be/xOJCn7Hi9QA
> 
> This is a sequel of sorts to "Wings."

It had been two weeks since Dean woke up in an empty bed. Nothing but sleep, but he felt like Cas’s wing had left a brand on him. He hadn’t slept well since.

In the meantime, Dean had gone out to get more groceries (he’d had no idea that Sam would eat so much when he cooked, damn Sasquatch) and seen a Martin guitar in the window of a pawn shop near the grocery store. It was a little worn, but it had a warm, rich sound. Dean had charmed the shop owner down two hundred bucks and taken it home.

Dean wasn’t really sure where his old guitar had gone. They’d had to make room in the Impala for weapons so many times… but this guitar was fine. He was a little out of practice, but he got the instrument tuned and set it on its stand. “Cas, I’ll have to play for you,” he said to the empty room and the empty chair.

Later, after Sam had done the dishes and gone to bed with a book of lore, Dean retreated to his room and picked up the Martin. He strummed it once, made adjustments, and played a few scales, leaning up against the headboard with his eyes closed.

He thought of a few songs he knew well, but one kept popping up, over and over, until Dean felt his fingers move almost on their own. How had Buckley died? Drowned, Dean remembered.

Dean took a deep breath and started to sing, stumbling a little on the opening verse.

“…So I’ll wait for you… And I’ll burn.  
Oh, will I ever see your sweet return?  
Oh, will I ever learn?  
Oh, Lover, you should’ve come over…  
Say it’s not too late.

Lonely is the room, the bed is made,  
The open window lets the rain in.  
Burning in the corner is the only one  
who dreams he had you with him.  
My body turns and yearns for a sleep  
that won’t ever come..” 

Dean kept his eyes closed, and he was so focused on the song and the way the Martin was vibrating against him that he didn’t hear the soft sound of wings and softer sound of Cas’s feet as he took the empty chair for himself.

After the last verse and chorus, Dean took another breath and opened his eyes. The guitar very nearly went flying across the room as he saw Cas’s form across from him. “Cas! Jesus, what the hell!?” 

“I didn’t know you sang like that,” Cas said, never taking his eyes off of Dean. The angel looked awestruck. “You murmur in your sleep, but I didn’t know you could sing.”

Dean’s heart was pounding. “Where.. where have you been?”

“Not far. I was concerned that you were angry with me, that I shouldn’t have been so forward and stayed with you.. like that.”

Dean got up and put the guitar back in its stand. “Are you serious? You stayed away for two whole weeks because you were worried I wasn’t okay with you being here?” Dean fought the urge to shake Cas as hard as he could. “Are you out of your mind? Why would I tell you to go back to sleep if I didn’t want you here!?” He couldn’t sit down but did not pace.

Cas looked down. “I don’t know. I don’t usually sleep. I couldn’t think of anywhere else to go. And I didn’t want to leave, but I didn’t… I didn’t know what would happen when you got up. Then I heard you say you wanted to play for me and.. I couldn’t stay away anymore.”

“Do you have somewhere you need to be?”

“No,” Cas answered, shaking his head. “Not now.”

“Then stay. And I’ll play for you again in the morning.”

Cas toed off his shoes. “Okay.”


	6. Drabble #6: Here to Provide

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean runs away from the Impala before he realizes he's moved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not own Supernatural.
> 
> Ficlet is inspired by the end scene of Season 8, Episode 21, "The Great Escapist."

Dean runs away from the Impala before he realizes he’s moved.

Recognition floods Cas’s eyes as he sags back against the asphalt, a small pool of blood underneath him. His eyes shut and nothing but absolute relief plays over his features.

Dean reaches him and immediately strips off his flannel shirt and jacket and presses it to Cas’s abdomen. “Fuck, Cas, what the hell happened!?” He hears Cas make a pained sound as Dean puts pressure on the wound. Sam is close behind him. “Sammy, give me your belt, now!”

Sam’s finger are slowed from his fever, but he presses the belt into his brother’s hands in time to watch Dean cinch it around Cas’s stomach to hold the clothes in place. “We have to get him back home. He needs stitches.”

Dean leans over Cas and looks into his face. “Cas,” he says, voice clipped.

The angel’s eyes open and lock on Dean’s.

“Cas, I’m going to pick you up. We’re taking you home. I’ll take care of you.” Dean’s gaze never moves.

There is an almost imperceptible nod. Cas’s eyes slide shut again.

Dean doesn’t hesitate; he’s got his arms under Cas’s knees and back like he weighs nothing and is running back to the Impala, Sam on his heels.

“Shit, Dean, what happened to him?” Sam opens one of the back doors so Dean can put Cas down over both back seats.

“I don’t know.” Dean looks at his brother. “Can you drive?”

Sam nods. “It’s not far.”

“If you get fucking dizzy, you tell me.” Dean closes the open door and goes around the car, getting it on the side where Cas’s head is. Sam is in the driver’s seat and going at least twenty over when he realizes that Dean has Cas’s head in his lap and is talking quietly to him, a stream of reassurance and descriptions of the batcave. Sam has to fight to concentrate on the road as he tries to also listen to Dean’s low voice and to fight off memories of Dean taking care of him, now and when he was young.

It seems like hours, but they make it. Dean has Cas in his arms again and practically sprints to the door. Sam decides that he’ll have to laugh at the idea of Dean carrying Cas across the threshold some other time.

As soon as Dean crosses the door, Cas takes a deep breath and says softly, “This place is heavily warded. They won’t be able to find me. Or either of you.” And he sighs, as if the idea of these people finding the brothers was intensely painful.

“Dammit, Cas, don’t talk right now.” Dean makes his way to his room, laying the angel down on his own bed and telling Sam to get the “fucking big first aid kit.”

Sam knows exactly which one that is and brings it as quickly as his (slightly) wobbly legs will carry him.

Dean has Cas on a quilt and has managed to divest the prone figure of his trench coat, shirt, and tie while leaving the makeshift bandage in place. Sam pulls the small stitches kit out of the box, as well as a pile of antiseptic pads and gauze, setting them on the bed next to Dean.

Dean can see his brother’s hands and favors him with a sharp glance. “You’re shaking, Sam. Get to bed, I can stitch him up.”

Sam can tell Dean isn’t going to let him argue and retreats.

Dean doesn’t wait for Sam to leave the room before he has the kit out and is threading the needle. He swipes it and the thread down with a wipe and says again, “Cas.”

“Dean,” he grits out, jaw clenched, blue eyes at once pained and glad.

“You need stitches. I’m here to provide. This is going to hurt. A lot.”

Another tiny nod. Dean goes for it, ignoring as much as he can Cas’s (thankfully) quiet pained sounds. But it’s done quickly and covered in gauze and tape, and Dean nearly sighs after Cas does.

“Better,” the angel says, eyes opening after being clenched shut.

Dean takes out a few of the wipes and starts on Cas’s face, wiping at his cuts and split lip. Cas’s eyes close so Dean can get the blood off of his eyebrows. “Fuck, Cas, what did they do to you?”

The angel blinks rapidly up at him. “Dean, please. I’ll tell you but it’s taking everything for me not fall unconscious right now.”

Dean jumps back and pulls Cas’s shoes off. “You stay right there and sleep. But I want details and names and addresses. No one digs around in my friend’s stomach without getting what’s coming to them.”

There is a flicker of a smile, and Cas’s eyes close and his breathing evens out like he flipped a switch.

“Memory foam, Cas, like I said,” Dean murmurs. He gets up to pull a chair next to the bed. Cas’s chest rises and falls, the gauze tinged slightly now. Dean gets an extra blanket and covers Cas up with it, pushing some of his disheveled hair out of his face.

“My turn, I guess. I hope I don’t startle your sleeping ass awake.”


	7. Drabble #7: Cups and Days

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John finds the tea calendar in a box of Sherlock’s things and doesn’t leave the flat for a whole day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not own Sherlock. Too bad.
> 
> Fic inspired by this item: http://www.carbonated.tv/lifestyle/calendar-made-of-brewable-tea-have-amazing-tea-365-days-of-the-year-photos
> 
> Post-Reichenbach, if anyone's wondering.

John finds the tea calendar in a box of Sherlock’s things and doesn’t leave the flat for a whole day.

It was bad enough that John was packing Sherlock’s things (to take upstairs, where Mycroft had promised to sort through them), bad enough that is the last of the boxes, but this… this was worse.

It was wrapped in soft, gold paper, unopened, with a tiny tag. “To John. Happy Birthday,” it says in Sherlock’s strange, loopy handwriting.

Josh sucks in a breath and holds it. His birthday wasn’t for months.

He tears open the paper and sees the numbers and months, each a tiny pressed card of tea. It’s not anything he even knew existed, but it’s such a perfect gift. And Sherlock had even set the date to start on his birthday.

John keeps breathing, wiping at the tears that are sitting in the corners of his eyes, waiting. His chest aches. A month, it had been a month, since he had watched Sherlock leap from the rooftop. And now another reminder of everything they could now never have.

Gritting his teeth, John takes off the first tea card and takes it to the (clean) kitchen. He turns the kettle on, waits, sets the card in the bottom of his RAMC mug, waits, pours the water over, watches the date slowly dissolve. Sips. It’s very good.

Only Sherlock could even think of something like that. So John keeps the calendar in the kitchen and uses the dates like a manta. Two months, six days since. Three months, four days since.

 

It is six months, six days since, and John has put milk in his tea in the dark of the kitchen. He’s taken an emergency job, which has odd hours and keeps him very busy. The flat is impeccably tidy and feels unlived in, even when Mrs. Hudson brings him scones.

John sometimes hates Sherlock. Sometimes he drinks a cup of calendar tea and has to stop himself from breaking his own mug. And he brings the calendar to Ella and tells her about the count, about how each cup of tea is a step away from him and how horrible it is to always want to make two cups of it.

Ella asks him if he wants to throw the calendar away. John physically flinches and says absolutely not. “The tea is really good,” he adds, as if to justify it to himself as well.

The calendar gets thinner and thinner, and John works and tidies the flat and has scones with Mrs. Hudson and Molly. His actual birthday comes and goes. Christmas comes and goes. He puts flowers on Sherlock’s grave on his birthday and thinks it would have been nice to buy Sherlock something as interesting as his nearly empty calendar.

 

John gets up on a clear summer morning and notes that he has the day off and has errands to run. Everything is normal, or as normal as any day is when the temperature edges up so high that it’s almost not worth opening windows. He notices that only two days are left on the calendar as he leaves the flat in a t-shirt and thinks he may have to have two cups later, that it has been a year.

And when he comes home and the door is ajar, he thinks nothing of it, figuring Mrs. Hudson left in a rush somewhere. He locks the door behind him.

The flat is nearly too warm, but it feels too humid as well. John stops and puts his bags on the floor; he turns and looks into the kitchen.

Two cups of tea sit on the table, the dates on the cards dissolving slowly in the hot water.

“Hello, John.”


	8. Drabble #8: Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Metatron had shown some mercy, at least, to Castiel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not own Supernatural.
> 
> SPOILER warning in effect--this is post 8x23 of Supernatural.

Metatron had shown some mercy, at least, to Castiel.

Emerging from the woods, he sees Dean and Sam illuminated by the glow of the thousands of falling angels, staring up into the sky.  He sees, but can no longer hear, Dean mouth his name.

Castiel hurts.  His eyes are blurry with tears, and he is achingly aware of his need to breath (new), the way his toes feel in his socks (itchy).  He staggers toward Dean, who is saying something to Sam now, Sam who looks like he is about to pass out from shock and the aborted trial with Crowley.

“Dean,” Cas croaks, stumbles, falls flat on the gravel, little rocks scraping his face.  It _hurts_.  But he can hear Dean lean Sam up against the Impala and come to him, hooking both of his arms under Cas’s and heaving him up.

Cas sways on his feet and leans into Dean, his forehead against the hunter’s collarbone.  “Cas?” he asks, his elbows now under Cas’s armpits to keep him from falling over.

“I heard you,” Cas says, his voice cracking, “I heard you call for me.  It was the last thing I heard, Dean, it’s so… quiet” and his voice breaks and he is clutching Dean with all his might as the sobs come and the held-back tears spill over and wet Dean’s shirt.

Dean keeps ahold of Cas and slowly edges back toward the Impala, hands moving unconsciously across Cas’s back to comfort.  Sam is breathing, slowly, his eyes shut and squinty with pain.

Cas is sucking in a breath when Dean catches his wet face in both of his hands. “Cas, help me get Sammy in the backseat.”

Cas obeys, not that he is much help without his power—Sam is so heavy, now, and it takes all he has not to collapse into the backseat with him.

Dean closes the doors as Sam curls onto his side across the backseats.  “Cas.”

Cas looks at him and hates that he can’t see the mark of his grace on Dean anymore, hates that he can’t see that soul (he had put it back together, he had held it in his hands) shining out.  Maybe ever again.

The thought itself make him shudder, bereft.  He covers his ears. “Too quiet, Dean, it’s too quiet…” And he is crying again, looking up at Dean from where he has sunk into a crouch, feeling the unfamiliar burn of the position in his thighs, the cold of the Impala against his knee.  “I’m not.. I’m human, Dean.  Metatron took my Grace.  _Took_ it.  I didn’t get to choose anything.  It’s all wrong again, and it’s my fault.”

Dean makes a pained sound and kneels in front of Castiel.  He puts his hands over Cas’s and says, “We will fight him, Cas.  No one fucks with my family and gets away with it.  I could have lost both of you.  Both of you!  Not going to happen.  Now,” Dean pauses and makes sure Cas is looking into his eyes, “now come help me figure out what the hell to do with Maybe-A-Do-Gooder Crowley, and we will go back to the bunker and get you and Sam sorted.  Okay?”

Castiel nods.  Dean’s hands are hot against his.  Were they always that hot?  He tries to breathe through his nose and ends up making a pathetic snorting sound and coughing (new).  Dean’s mouth twists up in a half smile.  “I hate crying, too.  God didn’t design all those tubes and shit right, man.”

Cas coughs again and allows Dean to pull him up from his crouch.

Cas moves toward the church but is stopped short as Dean comes around to his front and hugs him, hard, both arms around Cas’s back, his chin against Cas’s shoulder.

“I thought you fell, too.  I thought you were dead, I didn’t know…” Dean is saying, quietly, as if to himself.

Cas can feel the heat of him, the little ache where the hunter’s sharp chin digs a little bit into his shoulder, the strength of his arms as they tighten just bit more around Cas’s torso.  He thinks of Purgatory, when Dean had hugged him, and how vastly different this _feels_.

He puts his own arms around Dean and holds.  “I’m here,” Cas says to him, “I’ll watch over you.”


	9. Drabble #9: Throes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sequel to “Aftermath.”
> 
> The drive back to the bunker is desperately quiet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You should read the previous drabble to get some context.
> 
> Supernatural does not belong to me.

The drive back to the bunker is desperately quiet.

Cas and Dean ride in the front, silent. Sam, slumped over against one of the rear windows, sleeps, whimpering in a dream. He sweats, right through his shirt, and Dean worries that his fever had spiked after the aborted third trial. Next to him, Crowley looks dazed in his magic handcuffs, Cas eying him now and again with obvious contempt. The demon (was he still a demon?) stares out the window at the constant rain of angels, lights falling everywhere and lighting up the sky.

Dean has a fleeting thought that some were going to land in the middle of the ocean or on the tops of mountain and die out there. He looks at Cas and, a little guiltily, thanks someone (who?) for his figure in the impala, safe.

They make it back to the bunker to a very freaked out Kevin Tran, who Dean coerces into a bedroom and tells to go to sleep before getting Crowley out of the car. Dean lays out assignments after he and Cas half-drag, half-carry a still unconscious Sam to his room to sleep, asking Cas to get some blankets and water and take them town to the devil’s trap dungeon.

Cas does one better and brings a mattress pad, a bottle of water, and a lamp, as well. Then they both get Crowley, one at either of Hell King’s arms, and get him down to dungeon. He’s still dazed and murmuring, but he allows them to get him into the dungeon, which has lost its creepiness in the lamplight. Crowley takes one look at the mattress and lies down. It’s only when he snores that Dean and Cas shut the door.

In the kitchen, Dean risks a look at Cas, whose blue eyes are looking at him right back.

Dean’s legs give way and he sinks to the floor beneath Castiel’s gaze. He is horrified to realize he is shaking.

“Dean?” Cas asks, his face at once stoic and concerned. He’s trying hard to not to freak out, Dean realizes.

“I..” Dean stops when Castiel reaches down to help him.

Dean takes his hand and stands, following Cas out the den and accepting a glass of whiskey from him with a shaking hand.

“Cas, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Castiel’s mouth is tight.

“What are we going to do?” Dean asks him.

If possible, his mouth tightens further. “I don’t know,” he finally grits out, eyes shut. “I am sweating. I have a horrible taste in my mouth. I couldn’t help Sam. I couldn’t help you carry him. I am useless now.” Cas spits the words out, and Dean can see that he is crying, or trying not to.

Dean drains his glass and places his glass on the table between them. Looking at him, Cas does the same and chokes, hard, and then grimaces, one hand on his stomach. In any other circumstance, it would have been funny. But not now.

The words ring in Dean’s ears, and he crosses the space between them and picks Cas up by the lapels of his coat, anger flooding him and turning his blood to lava. The angel doesn’t even struggle, lets Dean crowd him against the nearest wall.

“CAS,” he says, loudly, echoing in the still room. He feels hot all over and shakes with it, shakes Cas a little, watches him wince. “Cas, what the hell did I tell you, before? WHAT DID I SAY?” Dean punctuates each word with a little shake, eyes locked to Cas’s, who looks down.

“You needed me,” Castiel says, his voice a flow of gravel, so quiet Dean knows he only hears him because they are so close.

“I needed you,” Dean affirms. “I need you. Did I say I needed your healing powers, or your fucking power at all? WHAT did I say, Cas!?”

“You needed me,” Cas says again, daring to look at Dean’s face.

Green locks on blue. “I need YOU, Cas. You. How dare you—how fucking DARE you say you’re useless because you can’t zap somewhere or carry Sam or put Kevin to sleep? How dare..”

Dean has to pause. Cas’s chest is heaving, and there are tear tracks on his face. Dean feels like he could punch him.

Or kiss him.

It’s the latter that is more upsetting.

Dean settles on shaking him again. “Cas, you’re family. We can try and figure this shit out. Sammy and me and Kevin, we will do every fucking thing we can to get Metatron for this. You know that, right?”

Cas nods.

“Then what the hell are you saying?”

Castiel heaves another breath. “I won’t be able to help you. Not like I could before.” He shakes his head, letting it bump back against the wall. “If I’m not of use to you for what I can do, why should you keep me around? What can I do to fix it? It’s MY fault, Dean, mine! I was… duped! And then he took my grace out of me just like that” and he snaps his fingers, eyes shutting against the painful memory. “I should have… I should have ended it when I had a chance.”

That’s it.

Dean pushes him hard against the wall. Castiel lets out a pained grunt as his head is jarred, but he sees Dean’s expression and freezes, eyes wide.

“Cas, you listen to me right now,” Dean says, every syllable clipped and hard with contained fury. “You are important to me… to us. We need you. You, not your power. You. And I believed him, too, we all did. We can fix it. But we can’t do it without you. I can’t…”

Dean stops and just looks at Castiel, who is still frozen and trying hard to breathe normally. The bunker is silent. Fuck it, Dean thinks, all at once, and he’s kissing Cas hard, head tilted and locking their mouths together.

Cas makes an unholy noise and brings his hands up to cover Dean’s, who is still holding on to Cas’s lapels. Dean flicks his tongue against Cas’s lower lip, sliding in when Cas parts his lips.

Dean brings Cas’s hand around his shoulders and moves more into Cas’s space, never stopping the kisses, breathing through his nose and reveling in the soft sounds Cas is making against his mouth. His mouth is silken soft, all whiskey-dark and heated. When their groins connect, Cas whimpers—honest to god whimpers, and Dean reaches down and lifts him up, more contact and more friction as he pulls Cas’s legs around his waist, feeling them lock behind him and Cas rock forward toward him. Their mouths never separate.

“Cas,” Dean breathes, coming up for air.

Shit.

Cas is panting like he’s run a marathon, staring at Dean, his eyes locked on the hunter’s as if looking elsewhere would physically harm him. “Dean?” he says, and, god, that voice is broken and wanton, and Dean can feel him, heat and hardness against his own. It’s like being pressed up against the sun.

“Cas, we..” Fuck, this isn’t what he wants to say. “Cas, we don’t have to do anything you don’t want. But I couldn’t… I couldn’t fucking tell how to get it through your thick skull.”

A tiny, tiny smile wavers all over Cas’s mouth, red and wet and Dean thinks he’s never seen anything more beautiful in his life.

And then his eyes droop a little bit, and Dean has the sudden realization that this new-made human hasn’t eaten or slept or showered. He leans in and kisses Cas again, softly this time.

“Cas?” Dean says.

“Yes?”

“Do you understand now?”

“I think so. You are rather communicative when not talking.”

Dean huffs a laugh. “Come on. Let’s get you showered and in something not a trench coat.” He bends his knees a little and unhooks Cas’s legs from around his waist. His whole body protests as cool air rushes into the space between their bodies.

Castiel looks confused. “Why?”

“Because I’m not going to rush you into something tonight after all this shit went down. You need a good meal and another whiskey and some sleep.”

Cas’s sapphire eyes meet his. “I don’t want to be alone.”

“Then you won’t be.”


End file.
